What I remember is the rain—starting soft like a whisper, then roaring loud enough to drown out the music. I remember Mom’s laugh. I remember her teasing me about Nate from chemistry class. I remember a sudden blaze of headlights. And after that? Flashes: shouting her name into the storm, kneeling in the mud, my hands trembling and slick with rain. She was lying there, still, her eyes gazing at something far away.
I shook her. I begged her to wake up. Then there were sirens, voices, hands pulling me back. Someone said she had been driving. I tried to speak—to tell them—but the words wouldn’t come. Everything spun and went dark.
When I woke up in the hospital, pain and confusion wrapped around me like heavy blankets. My father—Thomas—was there. A man I barely knew, who used to send birthday texts and show up once every few holidays. He squeezed my hand and said, “Hey, kid.” And somehow, I understood: Mom was gone.
Two weeks later, I was living in a house that didn’t feel like home. Julia—my father’s wife—tried hard. She cooked oatmeal with flaxseeds and wore a smile that seemed almost too careful. I missed late-night waffles with Mom, not carefully planned meals and polite conversation.
There was a baby here too. Duncan. My half-brother. I couldn’t even bring myself to say his name out loud. I didn’t feel like I fit into this new world.
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